Saturday, December 31, 2011

Rhonda's Silly Sunday pops up quickly (especially when I post by 4:00 on Saturday) and if you're like me, you need something to laugh at on Sunday because Monday comes next. This week will be particularly painful because it ends my vacation.

Watching the Memphis Grizzlies blast the Houston Rockets on Friday night reminded me of a story from years ago.

My husband stood in line at McDonalds in front of NBA basketball player Pau Gasol. At seven feet tall and 250 pounds, one would think he'd be hard to miss; however, a woman cut in front of him in line.

Pau was too polite to say anything so my husband nudged the lady and said, "You just cut in line."

Thursday, December 29, 2011

I love Back to the Future movies. Remember when Doc Brown visited thirty years into the future - 2015 - three years from now? He got a total blood and cell replacement and looked just like the Doc Brown of 1985. I'm still searching for that transplant clinic, along with those hover boards, so I can be out with the old and in with the new.

Back to the Future II

Instead, I look thirty years older than I did in 1982... and so does Christopher Lloyd. So if we can't throw out our tired bodies and get new ones, what are we supposed to do? Yeah, I know diet and exercise. I could grow flowers with that broken promise.

Sometimes old is special. After all, I was sorry to see my old dog die, even though I am now in love with an energetic young one. I have my favorite old coffee mugs, and I like old jeans rather than buying new ones made to look old. Why must we always say, "Out with the old and in with the new" come New Year's? Can't we just cuddle up in our old pjs with our old dogs on our saggy laps?

Besides, who says new is better? I have old kids and I'd keep them over your crying infants any day of the week! So out with the old and in with the new– :p. Unless you can find me Doc Brown's blood and cell transfer clinic, I'm not interested.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

This week's GBE2 prompt is called "free write." That means we're supposed to pop out our random thoughts onto the computer without worrying about how stupid it sounds or what boring dribble comes out. Hey! I've got a reputation to keep up.

Boring Clip Art found within 15 min.

In preparation, I had to find a timer. I searched the internet and my widgets only to remember that I already have a cool one that will bark after fifteen minutes. This ought to be fun because my dogs react to barking. In a mere twelve minutes, their furry heads will pop up and they'll look around for a nonexistent dog. However, I won't be able to write about their reaction because my writing time will be up. Sucks for you.

As for now, my kids have a movie on the TV that I could care less about. Which is probably good because if I paid attention they'd be embarrassed. I don't know what's embarrassing about watching movies with your parents. The movie is called "No Strings Attached." I think Ashton Kutcher and Natalie Portman had some kind of sex affair. Maybe it's good that I'm not paying attention if they are bedding it up. Don't worry--my kids are adults, so I'm not a totally awful parent. Kevin Klein is also in this movie. He went to my high school... for about a year, but I never knew him because he's old.

Back on topic: The problem with free write, is that the trash that comes out on the keyboard won't be anything that folks will want to read. And if by some chance you care to read my worthless ramble, I probably won't want to read yours. No offense, but I like posts that are short and focused. With that in mind, I'll spend my last seven minutes revising this post so that it's not totally boring because I have a reputation to keep up. If I publish junk, no one will care to CATCH MY WORDS.

Saturday, December 24, 2011

It's not Sunday or even that close but I figure some of you might be busy if I waited to post at my usual time, so here goes early. Besides, it's Sunday in New Zealand where Rhonda starts her Silly Sunday at Laugh Quotes.

Back in October I injured my knee while running and had to go to physical therapy. One of the many exercises my therapist assigned was the "penguin walk." This involves putting a band around the ankles and taking side steps. Unfortunately, he forgot to give me the band.

So I improvised. I have a pair of elastic underwear that have quite a bit of stretch in them. These came in handy when doing the penguin walk.

If that isn't silly on a Sunday, nothing is.

If you need more silliness than using underwear to exercise, hop over to Rhonda's Silly Sunday.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

As a little girl, I kept seeing these huge wads of toilet paper in the bathroom trashcan each month and couldn't figure out what they were. So one day, I reached into the garbage and opened one to see for myself. Scared the snot out of me!

Maybe curiosity is not such a good thing, after all it killed the cat. Plus there is the old "ignorance is bliss" phrase too. None the less, I've always been intrigued by death. I wonder what happens when we die? Where do we go? or...Will we come back in a reincarnated form? The only true way to find out is to die, and I'm not that curious. I am, however, sure we're never totally gone because the body is made of energy and energy can never be destroyed. It only changes form; scientifically a part of us will always remain on Earth.

None the less, I believe in reincarnation and karma. For example, as a teacher, I must have done something horrendous in my past life. I have a theory that my current and past students belonged to villages that I sacked and burned, and they continuously get their karmic pay back on me every year. That's the history of everyone in the teaching profession because why else would we suffer such abuse?

But the barbarian's life must have been an old, old existence because back in college, a hypnotist captivated us kids in a journey to our past lives to observe what we had experienced. I was an African American slave and knowing myself, it makes sense. Although I'm white, I've always gotten along well with black people and feel a natural chemistry with African Americans who I've worked with or have had the pleasure of being around. Also, I instinctively have a terrible fear of authority figures and hate wearing turtle necks or anything tight around my neck or wrists. I've even experienced anxiety and had to look away upon seeing someone with something bound tightly around their neck. Yep! I was probably bound, shackled, and eventually hung. In my mind, hanging would be the worst way to die.

What? You don't believe this? Fine. I'll prove it to you in the next life. And by the way, a friend of ours visited a hypnotist who told her she was Queen Isabella in a past life. As a result, she has apologized for the way she had treated Jews.

Every Sunday, my good friend and former college roommate Rhonda sponsors Silly Sunday over at Laugh Quotes. If I could ever figure out how to make linky things work, I'd link it up. Never fear, you can read more jokes by heading over there. Here are a few jokes I've been telling for years.

Three boys had a contest to see who could throw a brick the highest. The first boy tosses the brick into the air. It flies high and comes down. The second little guy throws the brick into the air, it soars even higher then tumbles to the ground. Now the third boy, he stretches, swings his arms, and throws the brick so high that it never comes down.

☺☺☺☺☺☺

Two morons meet each other while walking down the street. The first one says, "Hey! If you can tell me how many chickens I have in this bag, I'll give you both of them."

"Three!"

"No fair! You peeked."

☺☺☺☺☺☺

A man and woman were fighting while riding on a train. The man smoked a cigar while the woman held a yappy dog.

"Put that noxious cigar out. I can't breathe in here," the woman said.

"Well, I can't think with that annoying mutt's nonstop yelping!"

"He's barking because he doesn't like the smell of your smoke!"

This scene went on and on until another passenger stood up and said, "Stop it! I can't stand the cigar, the dog, nor your constant bickering." He then grabbed the dog and the cigar and tossed them both out the window.

When the passengers arrived at the station, the dog was waiting. Can you guess what he had in his mouth?

Friday, December 16, 2011

Ever wonder what Jews do on Christmas? Years ago we escaped to Cancuun, but unfortunately this didn't become our holiday tradition. After all, traditions must happen yearly.

Then there were the years we dined on Chinese food, since these are the only restaurants open on Christmas Eve. This too did not become our holiday tradition because we don't do this consistently every year.

Starry Nights

If tradition means doing something annually, it looks like we've found one. For the past three years or so, we've spent Christmas Eve freezing our butts off working the Christmas light show at Shelby Farms. Although we're in the south where one can wear T-Shirts in early December, something happens around December 24th as the temperature drops that one night we're working outside. It's our own slice of h*ll, but it's only fair since we don't have to lug heavy trees into our dens or risk our lives on ladders while hanging Christmas lights.

We have our own holiday that doesn't ask for much: Hannukkah, Channuka, Hanukkah, Chanukah. We celebrate the miracle of one bottle of oil lasting eight days. I have Crisco in my pantry that's lasted anywhere from eight months to eight years. Maybe we should celebrate it too... or throw it out. Actually, the oil might be one of the younger items in our closet. Which reminds me of my mother.

Mom had a lonely pickle in a jar sleeping in the back of our fridge for years. My friends and I used to entertain ourselves by going through her refrigerator and laughing at the mold. Who knows? Maybe something in her fridge was from the holidays.

Friday, December 9, 2011

It's December, which means one more week of controlling overly excited grade schoolers who don't wholeheartedly believe in that jolly dude wearing a color that only makes him look fatter. Maybe St. Nicholas should switch his costume to black, since it's slenderizing.

See how slender Santa looks in black!

The fat guy has been down our chimney once in twenty plus years. He dropped off three Christmas gifts that were addressed to kids with names we didn't recognize. Since we didn't know who these kids were, where to find them, or how to get in touch with the fat man, our kids kept the presents. I hope that was okay.

Santa doesn't celebrate at our house because we're Jewish. Someone once asked how we explained to our kids that Santa is anti-Semitic. However, the kids never saw it that way because we have our own celebration-- Hannukkah, Hanuka, Channakkah, Chanukah. No one knows how to spell it, and many don't know how to pronounce it either.

It's not too different from the other Jewish holidays: They tried to kill us. We survived. Let's eat. Chanukkah also means gift giving. My daughter sent me the following e-mail, which I posted on my Facebook page.

No this story is not about Delta Airlines, even though they too are a "toilet bowl operation." I'm participating in Shelly's Crazy Alternative Reality over at The Life of a Novice Writer. She's presented four pictures and asked us to write a one hundred word story about one or all of them. I originally thought the assignment was 300 words and have been whittling my writing down but fail. I'm at 140 and have removed most of the detail to give you a bare bones story. I'm going to leave it as is, sorry Shelly.

The truck’s three wheels skirted around a cactus while sheep carrying the corner with the missing wheel kept it from scraping sand. Aries is rising covered the back window.

The truck halted. Bolts and cogs shot into the sand.

A cowboy carrying a rotary phone stepped out of his truck. “Don’t pull my truck apart!”

Thursday, December 1, 2011

When I was an innocent twelve year old, my big sister explained all those naughty words we weren't allowed to say but needed to know before entering middle school. When she came across the "F" word, she refused to define it because it was too naughty to talk about. Those with me in those early seventies, now know the bad word: "fifty."

Unfortunately, urban dictionary did not exist yet, and Bev's little vocabulary lesson was not nearly enough.

In the seventh grade, I had a crush on an eighth grade boy who I didn't know and still have never spoken to. Knowing he was Jewish, I needed to let him know that I was/am Jewish too. When we had a fifties day, I wore my earrings. A friend told me that the only people with pierced ears in the fifties were prostitutes. Here was my chance to let the boy of my dreams know I'm Jewish. I loudly said, and repeated multiple times, "I'm not a prostitute, I'm Jewish." Okay, prostitute sounds like protestant, and I didn't know what one was anyway so... oops.

Apparently, my classmates were not as innocent as me. They repeatedly mentioned a catch phrase of, "Sit on it" when at odds with each other. To add even more emphasis to the phrase, they would say, "Sit on it and rotate." Being super naive, I didn't know what this meant but said it anyway when my sister upset me. My mother held the dish soap under my nose and yelled about how she'd wash my mouth out with soap. Dirty? Did I say something dirty? Back in my middle school innocence, I didn't know that phrase was dirty. Oops.

Then came sleepover camp. Late night Truth or Dare with a crowd of boys and girls was the ultimate fun in middle school, until Ruthie asked me, "Are you a virgin?" Not knowing what a virgin was, I sure didn't want to admit to being one, so I said, "No."

Oh my. The faces around me turned white and mouths dropped open because who was not a virgin at age 13 in the seventies? Of course, I didn't know why I got their strong reaction to my answer. Ruthie explained to me that a virgin is someone who has never had sex.

Monday, November 28, 2011

GBE2's topic for the week is "Bucket List," which means things you want to do before you "kick the bucket." My desires are short but mine.

(1) I want to publish a novel. Although my third manuscript is strong, it's been rejected by a few–okay a lot–of agents, but that's their mistake. I mean, who wouldn't want to be engrossed in a story about a teenager running from mob dudes?

My fifth book is also strong, but I have yet to quit polishing it and send it out. It's difficult for an author to drop her hands from the keyboard and say, "This is as good as it's gonna get." Plus, after meeting Linda Sue Park, I'm determined to make every detail and object in the novel count–including the blue bucket. I'm just not there yet; but when I am, hopefully the world will enjoy meeting Knob.

(2) I want to travel to New Zealand and visit Rhonder. I've never been to NZ, Australia, Fiji Islands, or anywhere else in that corner of the world. Unfortunately, we are college poor as we work to educate our young. But one day, I will sell my award winning novel and hop on a plane across the world. Please God, let it not be a Delta flight!

As far as bucket lists go, is there such a thing as an anti-bucket list, aka - things I DON'T want to do? We can call this the mop list since mops take care of what falls out of the bucket... and it's usually a mess to clean up.

I don't want to sky dive. Rhonder did, and it almost killed her.

I don't roller coaster or thrill ride. I even wet my pants on the little log flume at Six Flags.

I have no desire to visit the moon, the bottom of the ocean, or war torn countries.

Call me no fun, but I'm a gal who likes her feet on the ground. Now socially, I have no filter and have been prone to say what comes out of my mouth! If that doesn't make sense, you don't know me. ;-)

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Since you asked, here is the story behind Wilberfoss' name. Daniel's been calling Erica "Erca" for years, and he also named Judy "Mirum." When we visited Charleston for his graduation, one of his friends was confused. She thought Daniel had four sisters.

Friday, November 25, 2011

My daughter had a flight on Delta this Thanksgiving Holiday. She started by sitting on the runaway for an hour or more because of weather. I'm not sure what sort of weather threatened Orlando, Florida, but my guess would be a winter storm system blowing blizzard like conditions through the sunshine state.

By the time she arrived in Atlanta, her connections to Baltimore had finished loading and under penalty of law--NO PASSENGERS SHALT BE ALLOWED TO BOARD. Fear not, a flight to Knoxville prepared to take off, and we'd be passing through that city in thirty minutes. The nice man at the ticket counter plugged the changed flight arrangements into his computer and printed her a lovely paper that he signed. "Just take this to the Knoxville gate and board."

Lying snakes! After lugging her luggage (I guess that's why it's called luggage) through the delightful Atlanta airport, the nameless clerk–Judith Campbell– would not let my daughter onto the plane. She snarled at her as she said, "He's not authorized to change your flight." Mind you, she's not authorized to be a clerk! Instead of simply letting her on a plane, Dumb Delta paid to put an eighteen year old in a hotel by herself, give her a voucher for breakfast, and make her get up at an unGodly hour to board an early flight--that also sat on the runway due to mechanical problems. Finally they allowed the plane to take off–NOT! Apparently the radio malfunctioned, so they stopped the take off to turn around and get it fixed.

I spoke to the Delta folks and told them, she needs the price of her ticket refunded. The "nice" lady told me the only way to get the money back is to send her back to Orlando. She offered me a whopping $150 voucher. Wow! One-hundred, fifty whole dollars! Delta sucks! Unfortunately to use the voucher one has to get back on one of those *&;#% planes.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

The theme of this week's GBE2 post is laughter. The first thing that came to mind was that delightful song from Mary Poppins. When the movie hit theaters in 1964, my mom wouldn't let me see it because, "I couldn't sit through a movie." Having never been to a movie, I pictured tall seats that one had to balance on or you'd fall off. Why else could I not "sit" through it? Eventually I saw reruns of Mary Poppins on cable, and this scene is awesome.

Laughing from a movie is great, but the best kind of laughter is the home-spun-something-funny-just-happened type. As a teacher, nothing beats making a class laugh. It satisfies my unfilled dream of being a stand up comic. I also hope to make kids laugh with my writing. According to Bruce Coville, that's easy. You just need to include the magic words: fart, pooh, underwear, toilet, and what was the other? Excuse me, I'm having a Rick Perry moment.

At my ten-year high school reunion, we all folded up when reminiscing about sixth grade. When anyone was feeling playful, they'd whisper "underwear" and everyone within earshot would crack up. underwear. Underwear. Underwear! UNDERWEAR! Are you laughing yet? If not, congratulations. You've made it out of the sixth grade mentality.

As for farts, my son said it best in eighth grade, "When we were in sixth grade and someone farted, it wasn't funny; but now, it's hysterical!" Here's the proof. Boys become less mature with age. Although in reality, an occasional fart in an odd setting can still make adults cackle.

Sometimes laughter isn't good medicine. I'll never forget my husband making me giggle after surgery. He didn't realize how much his jokes hurt until I cried from laughing. Then there's the old, "Don't make me laugh or I'll wet my pants." Who has never leaked from more than just the eyes when something was funny?

She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named recently told us a story about not being able to hold her pee when laughing. (Pee-that's Coville's other magic word!) She was at a neighbor's house playing a game called, "Naked City." All the little girls took off their clothes and sat around laughing. Unfortunately, laughter led to wetting the neighbor's carpet. She never told her friends or the neighbor's Mom what happened. All I can say to that is POOR Cocoa! I'm sure that black lab got a bawling out for that one.

I leave you with another great movie. This scene from Singing in the Rain makes me laugh every time I watch it.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Here's another one that's been floating around awhile. Whatever works! For more fun, hop over to Rhonda's and join her Silly Sunday Hop.

A man in Phoenix calls his son in New York the day before Thanksgiving and says,"I hate to ruin your day, but I have to tell you that your mother and I are divorcing; forty-five years of misery is enough.

"Pop, what are you talking about?" the son screams.

"We can't stand the sight of each other any longer," the father says. "We're sick of each other, and I'm sick of talking about this, so you call your sister in Chicago and tell her."

Frantic, the son calls his sister, who explodes on the phone. "Like heck they're getting divorced," she shouts, "I'll take care of this."

She calls Phoenix immediately and screams at her father, "You are NOT getting divorced. Don't do a single thing until I get there. I'm calling my brother back, and we'll both be there tomorrow. Until then, don't do a thing, DO YOU HEAR ME?" and hangs up.

The old man hangs up his phone and turns to his wife. "Okay," he says, "they're coming for Thanksgiving and paying their own way."

Friday, November 18, 2011

Pain or surgery When faced with back pain, I saw three docs in hopes one would say, "No surgery needed." Finally, I had the operation, but it was different with my mole. Dr. Dewane wanted it in a jar, so I sat on the surgeon's table. "It's harmless," the surgeon said. "Bye." I hopped off the table.

Red, golden, or dark brown When the price difference is $8 vs. $80, I'll color my own hair; but, it varies from bottle to bottle. Once the hair flamed bright red and matched my face. You get what you pay for. My mole is brown.

Ignorance or bliss The infamous they say, "Ignorance is bliss," but I'd rather be informed. The Occupy Wall Street message needs to be told. Corporations have avoided paying taxes by buying politicians to vote their passions; but this is a humor blog, and that isn't funny. The mole continues to occupy my leg.

Orange juice or something else I grew up drinking orange juice, but it's my least favorite type of juice. I love oranges but drinking its juice doesn't turn me on. I also grew up with a mole on my right calf. It's been there longer than many of my readers have been alive.Red or white I've never been much of a wine drinker but if given the choice, I'll always choose white--less chance of someone noticing it when I spill it on my shirt. Also, if I were to spill red wine on my mole, someone might mistake it for blood and make me remove it.

Ice cream or frozen yogurt I don't notice a difference. People insist that yogurt is better for you. I like it all the same and will eat whatever. I also like my mole, and I'm not letting some knife holder cut it out, even if he offered me a cold treat.Terror or comedy films If you've read my blog, you know the answer to this one. For anyone new here, feel free to look around. I dare you not to laugh! No my mole is NOT scary and most posts are not as lame as this one. Ick another I Have you ever noticed when writing acrostic poems, you always have two of the letter that stumps you? Is that Murphy's Law? I can't even think of an I for the mole because it's not icky.

Elves or dwarfs I've never been into fantasy, although I confess, I enjoyed Tolkien's The Hobbit. I got hooked in chapter five when I read, "What has it got in its pocketes?" Usually mine contain a dirty Kleenex; but, it's not dirty from the mole. It's NEVER leaked fluid! Shot or the flu If you'd have asked me thirty years ago, I would've chosen the flu. Now, I've grown up and take shots like a big girl. I once tore out of a doctor's office to avoid a shot. I was only wearing underwear while multiple nurses chased me.What did they expect from a little seventeen-year-old girl? ☺ Of course when they tried to remove my mole, I ran too.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Funny that this week's topic should be about surprises because my husband is planning my surprise birthday party right now. We've been invited to Vic's Dirty Santa party on December second (close to my big 50). Although my husband claims this is Vic's annual party, we've never been invited to it.

He said, "Oh, sure. He's invited us before. I just never wanted to go."

Yeah, right.

Mitchell threw me a surprise birthday party when I turned 30 and 40, so I figure it's time again. Of course, I'm a stink pot when it comes to these things, so he might not want to plan one for 60 (or this year). Ten years ago at the last minute, I told him I was sick of the restaurant we were headed to and wanted to go somewhere else. My bad. I don't deserve him.

I of course, threw surprises for him on his 30th, 40th, and 50th too. The most recent was quite fun. My mother-in-law bought airline tickets to bring our two older kids to town. Without telling my husband, I took the afternoon off and picked up the kids. Later––when I'd normally be home, I called him at work and told him he had to come home because the upstairs toilet was over flowing and I didn't know what to do. When he said he was in the middle of something, I faked anger in my frantic state and told him he HAD to get home now.

Mitchell rushed to the rescue and proceeded to inspect the perfect toilet. "I don't see anything wrong with it," he grumbled.

"Me neither," our son said from behind him. The look on Mitchell's face was priceless, but the picture didn't come out well. :(

I'll let you know how my surprise birthday party goes--or maybe I'll be surprised when it doesn't happen. NAH! By the odd chance that it's not on the second, I'll just figure it's going to be late since the kids can't make it to town until after Christmas.

Friday, November 11, 2011

This week's Writer's Post topic is Vacation; however, don't you have to take one to write about it? Thanks to our wonderful Veteran's, I'm home today, but it's not a vacation. I'm on staycation. That means I spend my day off blogging.

Bermuda Honeymoon - 1986

Way back before sending kids to college or soccer tournaments, we used to take great vacations. Mitchell and I honeymooned in Bermuda. Nothing like riding a motor bike among the flowers.

After Bermuda, our vacations took a different feel when we added kids to the trip. The favorite game was "Let's Make Dad Mad." You pack the car and kids for a long drive, then listen to squabbling from the back seat until Dad stops the car–before we get off the driveway! We'd sit outside the house with my husband muttering, "We're not going. We're not going." Eventually the tears flooded the backseat and off we went.

We had some notable vacations, such as the time two kids threw up on the baby in the backseat of the van. At least kids can take baths and the car was a rental. Or the one where the daughter got lost in the museum and sent us into panic mode.

It could always be worse. Knock on wood, we never came home with broken bones like my first family did after French Lick, Indiana. I was soooo mad at my brother and sister for cutting our vacation short because they rode a bicycle built for two on the horse trail!

So sad!

Now our vacations come down to visiting the kids, which is awful since they chose boring places to live in. Our poor son lives in a city with nothing to do and horrible weather. He had to buy a boat to sail in the Charleston Harbor. Poor kid! Why would anyone want to live in a place with beautiful people, weather, and those awful palmetto trees all over the place?

At least she gets to play in snow.

Then there's our middle daughter who lives outside a culturally backwards small town. What's she supposed to do on the week-ends? Take a smelly subway to DC and visit museums? Such a boring place for a history major. (In case you didn't know, DC's subways are spotless)

Erica meets interesting people.

I feel sorriest for my baby who chose to go to school in Orlando. Poor kid is forced to ride those scary roller coasters at Universal Studios because the beach is too far of a drive. And the weather, yuck! She never gets to wear a coat or play in the snow.

Monday, November 7, 2011

The question, "Which is more important Nature or Nurture?," is up there with,"Which came first the chicken or the egg?" Both answers are hard to crack. When given this GBE 2 topic, I thought of Trading Places, a movie in which the Duke brothers bet $1 to see which mattered most: nature or nurture. Nurture won out, but the movie is fiction.

Goofy kids in bubble bath, circa 1995

Our three children have three distinct personalities. Just look at the photo and how each wore the bubbles in a different way. These babies born into the same environment were different from the start and still are... but maybe the environment wasn't truly the same? After all, we were calmer, more relaxed parents with the third born.

I've also heard that kids teach their parents how they should be treated by their nature. For example, a parent will interact differently with a wild child than a quiet one. So maybe nature beats nurture?

If nature wins, I still don't buy into crap about an inferior race. As a teacher, I've seen kids of all races, creeds, and colors in my intellectually gifted classes. I once taught an African American eight year old, who would read the Wall Street Journal when finished with his work. If you, the adult, didn't understand what he read, he'd explain it to you.

No race is inferior to another, although I can't say the same about parents. One of the hottest current videos on YouTube is that of a Texas judge whipping and cussing at his sixteen year old daughter for downloading music from the Internet. Really, moron? With a beating like that, one would think she made an assassination attempt on the president.

Unfortunately, physically and/or emotionally abusive parents are not the only inferior ones out there. Some well meaning adults hover over their darlings to the point of crippling their ability to think for themselves. So although nature has a strong hand in who we become, we can't ignore nurture.

Amazingly, many kids from horrid homes rise above abuse, neglect, and over-protectiveness to excel; while a kid from a great environment, swallowed mushrooms and drove his car through a house… then miraculously walked away unscathed.

To work a prestigious job, one must earn a college degree; however, the most important occupation in the world–parenting–requires no education at all. Why is that?

I leave you with the trailer from Trading Places, just in case you've never seen this wonderful movie.